


The Seduction of George Luz

by Renne



Series: Cheap & Easy OT3 [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: First Time, M/M, Military, Standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been trapped by Speirs the moment the Captain had come up the stairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seduction of George Luz

**Author's Note:**

> Also archived on livejournal [here](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/809922.html).

George Luz pressed his hands against the window glass.

It was a rare moment of quiet, of peace. The artillery that had been pounding Haguenau had eased into a lull – maybe the fucking Germans were finally outta ammo George had joked to Sergeant Lipton before Lip had ordered him to take a break (a careful one, though, 'cause Lip didn't want no replacement on his radio, thank you very much) – and no one was clamouring for supplies. Fucking Hershey bars and gum. He didn't know how Vest had done this war day in day out as some bumfuck delivery and supplies mail boy. It would have driven George postal long ago. He didn't join the Airborne to be some fucking delivery boy. That kind of shit was best left to Vest.

The glass was crisp and cold against his splayed fingers. After Bastogne and the Bois Jacques George had worried that he might never feel cold in his hands again, because he'd lived the cold so much it was a deep part of him in the very numbness in his bones. But he'd thawed; they'd gotten out of the foxholes and he'd thawed out and once again he could feel cold. It was different though, it didn't seem to matter as much – he could get cold now, but he knew he'd never be as cold as he had been in the forests around Bastogne. He wouldn't lie, there were a few times when he couldn't feel his hands at all and that had scared the absolute bejeezus out of him.

Maybe Lipton had seen that in his eyes. At times in the nightmare called the Bois Jacques in particular, Lipton had cradled George's hands in his and chafed and blew on them in an effort to keep his circulation up. 'You're no good to me if you can't use your weapon, Luz,' he'd chided and George had shivered and grinned and made a predictably lewd reply to Lip's unintentional innuendo. He could still remember the way Lip's eyes had widened and then crinkled at the corners with his smile as he'd laughed and shook his head. Yeah, Carwood Lipton was a great guy. George liked him a lot.

The window George had found was facing away from the German front over the river, and he could see little movement in the streets outside. The town could have been pretty once, and maybe it still was even, in a way, but all George could see was the collapsed and ruined buildings with a history of artillery strikes written to their very foundations, walls pockmarked from small arms fire and reduced to rubble by mortars. Towns were great for warm beds (and he heard the officers even got clean sheets) and warm chow and just... warmth in general, but fuck if they weren't death traps sometimes.

No. He didn't think the town was pretty, but it was peaceful and that was exactly what George needed right now. He loved his boys, he really did, and they were the greatest fucking boys in the whole 101st, the whole goddamn US of A army, but...

Just a little bit of peace and quiet. That's all.

Sighing, he tipped his forehead against the windowpane. The window was a two pane sash of cloudy glass, grimed with dirt, and the ancient white paint chipped and peeled when he ran his thumbnail along it. The corner of the bottom pane had been broken at some stage and the missing triangle of glass was plugged with a drab-coloured scrap of oily material. He fingered it, feeling the grease against his fingertips. Strange. He didn't know why anyone would bother when there was a great, gaping hole in the roof anyway. The top floor of this building was mostly uninhabitable.

George stiffened when he heard the close and deliberate scrape of a boot against the rubbish littering the floor. He hadn't even realised that someone else had entered the room, was standing directly behind him. His fingers skidded a little on the cold slick glass. Whoever it was, they'd managed to negotiate the squeak and protest of the decrepit stairs. George himself had been exceptionally careful when he'd gingerly scaled them to reach these not so lofty heights. No need to get told off for not taking a walk like Lip had ordered. George started to turn when a voice right behind him froze him in place.

'Sergeant Luz.'

If anything George's spine went even more rigid. 'Captain Speirs,' he said. 'I'm – I, uh – sorry sir, I'll just get back to—'

'Stay,' was all his Captain said, his fingers curling around George's arm just above the elbow. His grip was firm and authoritarian and immediately established his dominance. As if he could be anything else.

George swallowed. He couldn't really see Speirs, just a glimpse from the corner of his eye as he turned his head. 'Yessir.'

It wasn't that he was scared of Speirs – not as such. Since (the then) Lieutenant Speirs had taken over from Dike, George had had significant opportunity as radio man to observe their new commanding officer in action outside of... well, outside of action. When Speirs had assumed command at Foy, George had been almost giddy with relief despite the bullets singing around him. There was no doubt Speirs was an excellent platoon leader; for all the stories swilling around 2d Battalion of sergeants shot for drunkenness or disobeying a direct order and German POWs gunned down on D-Day, no one could say that Speirs wasn't good at his job.

George had watched him competently take control of the festering shit heap the Foy mission had turned into and make it his own, only to run out into the town jam-packed full of German infantry and artillery. And fucked if George hadn't thought they were about to lose another CO just as they got him.

No, George wasn't scared of Speirs. He thought Speirs was bugfuck crazy, but he wasn't scared of him. Not really. Not anymore.

Captain Speirs spoke in a pleasantly even, if low voice, saying, 'I can't help but notice we have something in common, trooper.'

'Sir?'

Speirs leaned in close enough for George to feel him brush up against his back. 'First Sergeant Lipton. Very, very soon to be Second Lieutenant Lipton.'

'Uh.' Speirs' breath was warm on the side of George's neck and George's normally glib tongue failed him completely. 'Yessir?' he repeated dumbly. His hands slid and squeaked on the glass as a nervous prickle raced up his spine. Captain Speirs was painfully close and right _there_. The hot feel of his breath against George's jaw and curving around his bared throat pushed George sharply once again into memories of the foxholes of the Bois Jacques, of huddling desperately to close under a ratty blanket with Lipton for any kind of shared warmth they could muster, Lip's breath warm and smoky on his skin as they shared a cigarette.

George shuddered and closed his eyes. Okay, yeah. Now he was scared shitless.

'Sergeant Lipton's wellbeing is of great importance,' Captain Speirs said, 'to the both of us.' There was something... odd (different?) in Speirs' tone when he said "wellbeing". Rougher and a little bit deeper, like he was saying one thing but meant something else.

And then George inhaled sharply as because thought he might just know what Speirs was implying and how what he'd said was meant to be taken. What he didn't know was how the hell Speirs even knew. Jesus, he was fucked.

But despite the fear vibrating through George's frame he suddenly became aware of something else. There was something else in this whole... whole _thing_, there had to be, because Speirs' hand was still on his arm and his own hands were still splayed on the glass and there was definitely something more. Something dangerous and needy and dark, metallic like blood in the back of his throat.

Captain Speirs' fingers tightened.

'Yessir,' George finally managed after a painfully long pause. He wished he could see Speirs' eyes to try and gauge what he was thinking. Oh, what the hell help did he think that would be? Speirs' eyes were cold and dead at the best of times, George was sure of it. No non-com grunt could read that – not without a manual anyway. 'Lip – uh, Sergeant Lipton's a-a good man. A good sergeant. I – we don't want anythin' bad to happen to him. Y'know? We wanna – we wanna make sure he's... looked after, of course.'

'...Of course.'

George's eyes fluttered closed and he bit his lips together on the low, faint moan that rumbled in the back of his throat as Captain Speirs' lips brushed against his skin just below his hairline. That dark and needy something coiled tight and low in George's belly and he bit his lips harder as Speirs' mouth lingered.

He started when Speirs' other hand curved over his shoulder, fingers hitching higher until Speirs' thumb brushed against George's neck. After a moment Speirs' hand shifted again, his thumb sliding up George's nape as his fingertips rested against George's hammering pulse.

'C-Captain Speirs, sir...'

'Yes, Sergeant Luz.' Not a question at all. George could still feel Speirs' lips against his skin then soft nuzzle of his nose into the short hair behind his ear. Speirs wasn't speaking normally anymore. His voice had slid lower into a husky purr; a feral, feline purr that coalesced that something vague feeling in George's belly into something definite.

'I. Uh.' All thought went straight out of George's head when the hand on his arm moved south, skimming down and over his stained, dirty drab blouse with purpose. Speirs moved deftly, like he'd done this before, flicking open the buttons necessary to access bared skin, pushing aside fabric without even a by your leave. When he splayed his fingers wide over George's skin, low on his belly, George couldn't keep in his moan.

He wanted this. He didn't know what it was, or what his Captain meant by it, but George wanted it. He wanted this from Speirs, god, what the fuck was wrong with him? What the actual fuck? He hadn't had a broad since Paris, and this was his CO... Jesus, he was fucked.

Captain Speirs swayed closer until he was fully pressed up against George's back and George was trapped between him and the window. His fingers curled against the glass, before sliding down to grip the frame. He'd been trapped by Speirs the moment the Captain had come up the stairs, the moment Speirs had read something deeper into George's gruffly gentle care of Lip. Maybe even the moment Major Winters had ordered Speirs to take over from Foxhole Norman out on the fields of Foy.

Speirs' breath was hot against his ear and there was the faint hint of teeth when Speirs pressed his mouth against George's skin with deliberate intent. His hand shifted lower, beneath the waist of George's trousers and for a moment it was like George couldn't catch a breath at all, his air all bound up in the back of his throat.

He wheezed.

'Breathe,' Captain Speirs said sharply, right in his ear, and while it was soft it was an order nonetheless.

'Yessir!' George whined and then Speirs' fingers were wrapping around him (and by god he was so hard up for this he could barely think) and he sagged back against his Captain. But he breathed through it, just like he was ordered to. Oh god, right now he would do anything this man wanted him to. Anything at all.

Speirs' hand was hot on George's skin and he cradled him George when George's head tipped back, baring his throat as he gasped and moaned. Maybe from this angle any man could be good, but George thought – when he could think, in between panicky thoughts of "What the hell?" and "This is the _Captain_," and "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," – that maybe Captain Speirs was particularly talented in this area. It could have also been because the man currently had his hand on George's dick, so George was hardly unbiased. He turned his face in against Speirs' neck, breathing hard.

Either way, Speirs jerked George off – a little rough and dry, just the way George had learned to like it – and supported him when his knees buckled, and pressed his cheek against George's hair as George unravelled right there in his arms.

'Ca-Capt—ahh—I'm—' It was only fair to warn before he came. This was his CO after all.

But any shred of the English language George might have hoped he'd remember in that highly unlikely case of his commanding officer shoving his hand down George's trousers had flown right out of his mind. It seemed his idiotic mumblings were enough to warn Speirs, however, as just before George peaked Speirs pulled his hand sharply from George's trousers—

And George could have cried.

Was that was this was? Another way for the Captain to fuck with his soldiers heads, since the legendary stories had almost finished doing their rounds? Bail 'em up and get 'em going. Even though George had warned him so he could stop, this was a terrible thing to do! George wasn't ready to stop! He was almost there!

—It wasn't for long, however, because Speirs' hand was once again tight on George's arm as he turned him around and backed him up against the wall (and Jesus H. Christ, Captain Speirs had been jerking him off right there _in front of the window_) and with one hand fisted in George's hair Speirs kissed him.

To be honest, it was less of a kiss and more of a savaging; a hot, sexy savaging that really left George breathless as Speirs tried to lay claim to every inch of George's mouth. At some point George was sure that maybe he should try to pull Speirs closer, get his thigh in between Speirs' so he could alleviate this excruciating need singing through him, except he couldn't quite figure out what had happened to his hands between the intoxication of the Captain's mouth on his and the hardness of his dick. As Speirs nudged him back with a knee and shoved his hand right back down the front of George's trousers, George realised that his own hands were right there where he'd left them, fisted white-knuckle tight in the front of Captain Speirs' blouse.

Speirs squeezed him and George's hips jerked. 'Jesus,' he gasped against Captain Speirs' mouth and Speirs pulled back a little. His eyes, freed the cold mask he normally wore, were bright and hot and alive and his mouth was reddened. 'Jesus,' George said again and kissed him. What possessed him to do that he'd never know, but it was good and it was enough and Speirs didn't push him away. Instead his grip on George's hair slackened and he crowded in closer, his grip becoming smoother as he left George to set the pace instead of being ridden where he was reined. Not that George really noticed. He was back on the edge when Speirs growled 'Come on,' against his mouth.

As if that encouragement was all it took, George rocked into Speirs' hand twice before he came with a broken cry, his head thudding hard back against the wall. It was like all the energy and need and frustration pent up inside was let go, released from where it was bound up in his gut in a wash of ecstasy. Shaking, he pawed at his Captain with searching, kneading fingers until his fingers skimmed against the skin at Speirs' throat, hot under his fingertips. Then he tottered forward, pressing his face in against that spot and inhaling deeply.

Neither of them had had a chance to get down to the showers yet, so Captain Speirs smelt no better than George. And right now he found the filthy smell of dirt and cigarette smoke and Speirs' own skin a perfect foil for his post-orgasmic haze.

Oh no. There was nothing wrong or fucked up about this at all.

He felt Speirs' hand light on the back of his neck, then feathering up into his hair and pleasure at the soft touch rippled right the way down his spine as his stomach clenched. He shuddered and pushed his face in harder against Captain Speirs' neck. George shuddered again as Speirs withdrew his hand from George's trousers and straightened. Still barely able to think clearly, George took that as closure to whatever the fuck had just happened and took a half-step back from Speirs. That was all it took before his back thumped up against the wall.

Not knowing what the hell he was meant to do now, George took the easiest route out and did nothing, chewing his lip. He lingered there awkwardly as Speirs stood before him, watching him with narrowed eyes. 'Sir, I—' then George noticed the way Speirs stood and the way he was holding his hand.

His fingers glistened.

George swallowed.

He was pretty sure it wasn't right and he shouldn't be finding his Captain quite as hot as he did at right then. He cleared his throat and said, 'Aw Jesus, I'm sorry, I've got – here, I've got it just here...' he fumbled in his pockets; surely he had a handkerchief or something somewhere. Perhaps a scrap of bandage from his aid kit. Maybe he should just offer his sleeve or something. The leg of his trousers.

...He would lick the Captain's fingers clean if need be—

'No need.' Speirs reached out and casually wiped his hand on the wall by George's shoulder. On the wall. Casually, like it didn't mean anything at all. Flustered, George focussed on the buttons at Speirs' throat. He was still standing close, well within George's personal space. It was something George had seen him do before, to Lipton mostly, deftly inserting himself into Lip's personal space without even a second thought. Lip didn't seem to mind though, so George tried to follow that lead. Couldn't get any worse than it had been a couple of minutes before.

Although to be honest, now he was cooling down he had no fucking idea what just happened. Beyond the obvious, anyway. And it wasn't like there was anyone he could talk to about it, either. "Hey Lip, so I was upstairs before, and you'll never guess what happened! The Captain came up and jacked me off! How about that, eh?" God, he could – would – never do that.

He scrubbed his hand over his face.

Captain Speirs was still standing too close, still scrutinising him, and for lack of anything better to do, George fumbled for his crumpled pack of cigarettes. He'd barely got the thing to his mouth and lit (his hand shaking all the time like he was shell shocked) before Speirs had plucked it from between his lips. Again he thought of Lip and the foxholes of Bastogne and the brush of his fingertips against George's mouth. The scream of the shell as it fell, seconds after the rest of the forest had fallen to silence and the dull thud of it hitting the dirt at the edge of the foxhole. He'd had the cigarette between his lips before he even realised it.

He should have died, right there and then. Should have died like Muck and Penkala had, a direct hit on their foxhole and they were gone. A direct hit on George's foxhole and... nothing. It wasn't fair. It wasn't that George wanted to die, of course, but how did he deserve to live over them?

God. He could still remember their faces, just before there was nothing but dirt and ash and the backwash of the impact that had him cowering. They'd died thinking he was going to buy it, desperately pleading with him to _run_ as he grovelled in the snow, because if he didn't run he'd die, except he didn't die, they did and it wasn't right because he was the one out in the open and—

'Hey, hey.' A hand on his face jerked him back to the present and he reared back a little, startled, shoulders thudding against the wall.

'Jesus,' George breathed, closing his eyes and turning his face away. Last thing he needed was to lose it in front of his Captain, especially after what had just happened. But Speirs still cupped his face, his thumb scraping over George's unshaven cheek in a soothing stroke. Like he was soothing a skittish animal.

George could smell the smoke from the cigarette Speirs held between his fingers.

The Captain brought up his other hand until he could coax George into looking forward again, and George felt a hint of breath against his lips before Speirs kissed him. It was only a quick kiss, smoky and firm before Speirs eased back. 'You go downstairs; see if you can't get that useless First Sergeant of m—ours to go get some sack time,' he said.

George smiled weakly. He knew it was little more than a humourless, hollow grimace, a poor shadow of a real smile. 'What makes you think he'd listen to me?'

Speirs gave George an eloquent one-shouldered shrug and an intent look. 'He won't listen to his Captain, now will he?'

Ah. Of course. George had forgotten (already) that one thing they had in common. 'Sir,' he said, dropping his chin and biting his lip. His sudden acquiescence made Captain Speirs frown and drop his hands, stepping well back out of George's personal space, once again redefining the boundary between Captain and trooper. George could almost see that cold mask drop back into place over his eyes. It saddened him to see it now and now he knew why.

He'd seen Speirs come alive. He knew what the Captain looked like without that careful mask and he – he liked that man, for all the shortness of the time that he'd seen him. 'I'll, uh, I'll see if I can't wrangle him into bed, hey?'

For a half second the cold mask was gone again, melted by the hot look Speirs flashed him. 'The man needs a good rest,' he said and George was sure he was being chastened, but he couldn't figure why. Captain Speirs didn't want him to go near Lip? Or Speirs didn't want Lip near him? Why would he send George to wrassle him in into bed if that was the case? 'He needs _sleep_, Luz. Check and see if he's eaten, because he's not gonna get better if he doesn't eat anything. Go to the mess – tell 'em I sent you for food for First Sergeant Lipton.'

'Yessir.' Of course, if word came from the Captain it'd be a better standard of fare, George was sure of it. And no one was about to lie and say they were after chow on the Captain's orders either, if they weren't. Speirs would know.

George made a move to slip around his Captain and to the stairs, but Speirs caught his arm in another tight grip. 'Christ, I know you non-coms are the best in the regiment but how you get anything done sometimes is beyond me,' the Captain muttered around the butt of the cigarette he'd shoved back into his mouth. 'Here, let me...' It was a good thing that Speirs was paying attention, because otherwise George would have trotted carelessly back on downstairs, not even realising that his clothing was still dishevelled and unbuttoned. It probably wouldn't be so bad if he didn't look thoroughly debauched.

'There,' Speirs said. 'Be more careful next time.'

'Next time?' George couldn't help asking, wide eyed. He was getting used to this feeling of taking his life into his own hands whenever he spoke to the Captain. Probably not the wisest of things to do what with the rumours that abounded, but god knew no one who knew him would argue in George's favour when it came to wisdom.

The Captain glowered at him. '_Go_.'

George popped off a snappy salute and headed for the stairs. The moment he was out of sight of the Captain, however, he sagged weakly against the wall, shaking. Strange that an inappropriate moment with his Captain could leave him the kind of mess German's shooting at him didn't.

It was probably a test and he'd failed dismally. Stupid, stupid, stupid! What had he been thinking? Why hadn't he been thinking? What a fucking joke. Jesus, he should've snapped to the moment he knew Speirs was there and bolted for the stairs.

There was the sound of someone softly clearing his throat and he twitched nervously, before looked up to the top of the stairs. 'Oh, by the way,' Speirs said in a soft, conversational tone, leaning on the doorframe with half a smile and a kind of carelessness that seemed outrageous, given the circumstances. 'In case you're wondering? It wasn't a test, you know.'

George fled.


End file.
